


Variation on Persephone

by dornfelder



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Character Death, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post series finale, Slow Build, do I really need to warn for that?, fix it or screw it up, or maybe both, some don't, some people die, will isn't okay but that's just fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When they speak of Kore, they never talk about how she had, in truth, been Persephone all along.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variation on Persephone

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.

_When they speak of Kore, they call her a maiden of flowers and speak of the dark god who was enthralled by her beauty. They say that he took her from the face of the earth to lead her into his realm of death; that she became Persephone when Hades lured her into eating pomegranate seeds, so that she would forever belong to the underworld. They talk about Demeter's desperate plight, how she moved heaven and earth to find her daughter and bring her back from the dark._

_When they speak of Kore, they never talk about how she had, in truth, been Persephone all along._

~~~~~

The first time Will opens his eyes, he is inside a car. The windshield scrapers move at a steady pace as rain patters onto the windows and the roof. The right side of his face feels numb, with an underlying, dulled but throbbing ache. He is cold, shivering in spite of the blankets that are wrapped around him. He wears nothing underneath. As he blinks, the world slowly comes into focus. Will turns his head a little to the side to see Hannibal. His face is clean but pale, and Will can see drops of sweat gathering at his hairline. He is wearing a blue overall and a flannel shirt, holding himself very straight, his back a long line of tension. There is blood under his fingernails where his hands are gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Will keeps staring at him. _How,_ he thinks. _How did you save us?_ And, _why. Why couldn't you just let us die?_ Hannibal turns his head, finds him awake. He says nothing, but he takes one hand from the steering wheel to turn up the heat. 

Will passes out again.

~~~~~

The second time, it is still dark. The car is parked in the driveway of a beach house of sorts, whitewashed walls and lines of unremarkable, rectangular windows, black in the dark. The passenger door opens with a squeak and cold hits him like a brick wall. His protest is an involuntary groan. He tries to shake off the grip on his arm. His efforts prove futile; Will is as weak as a kitten and can't prevent Hannibal from slinging his arm around his shoulders and lifting him out of the car. Too weak for anything else, Will goes with him. They slowly approach the house, where a door stands open and soft, rosy light greets them upon their entry. A broken door chain dangles uselessly from the doorframe. It's the last thing Will sees before he loses consciousness again.

~~~~~

The third time, he opens his eyes to a dimly lit room. He lies on a couch, surrounded by the scent of disinfectant and blood. Hannibal pulls a needle through his skin, on his right side, somewhere below his collarbone. He ties a knot, then cuts the thread. As Will takes in a sharp breath, Hannibal's eyes fly to his face. Hannibal's expression remains blank, and after a brief moment, he returns his gaze to his work, paying exclusive attention to the surgical instruments in his hands. Will closes his eyes.

~~~~~

The next time, he stays awake for longer. Long enough to lift his head and look around, an effort that takes a worrying amount of strength. He is laid out on a white leather couch in an exquisitely furnished living room, with expressionist paintings on the wall and soft classical music playing in the background. He recognizes the piece as Liszt's Liebestraum, though he can't quite remember where he heard it first, or when. An old man lies beside the front door, dressed in a bathrobe over a striped pajama. There is blood on his forehead. From the kitchen, Will can hear noises that amount to someone preparing a meal. A black cat is perched on the couch table, staring at him.

Will still wears nothing under his blankets. A careful touch to his right cheek reveals a neatly taped bandage. The knife wound on his chest has been properly dressed as well. The worst of the blood has been cleaned off him but traces remain on his skin, making him itch. 

A glass of water sits on the couch table. When Will tries to sit up and reach for it, the cat jumps from the table to sit on the plush carpet, starting to groom itself in blatant disregard of the events that have taken place in its home. 

A shadow appears in the doorway. Will looks up, unsurprised to see Hannibal, who has found an apron to wear over a dark red shirt that fits moderately well. "Good evening, Will."

"Hello," Will says. His voice comes out as grit and gravel. He coughs and his whole body seizes at the strain. Struggling for breath, he tries to sit up. Hannibal is at his side in an instant, pulling him up and against his shoulder. He takes the glass and holds it for Will to drink. Swallowing takes a lot of effort. Gradually, Will's breathing returns to normal, and Hannibal puts the glass back on the table. He keeps his arm around Will. Will takes another, careful breath. "Where are we?"

Hannibal helps him to sit back on the couch, to lean against the backrest, then lets go of him. "After you decided to push us off the cliff, returning to the house – if even possible in our condition – seemed unwise. I brought us here instead."

Will tilts his head toward the body beside the front door. "Where is here? And who was that?"

"Dr. Phillip Stapleton," Hannibal says. "A colleague. Former colleague, I should say; I haven't seen him in years. We are at his house."

"You knew where to find him." 

"I like to keep track of the whereabouts of my acquaintances. One never knows when the opportunity will arrive to have them for dinner." 

"What did he do to offend you?" Will says. 

"In the wake of my arrest and subsequent trial, he published a very … unfavorable report of our brief acquaintanceship, combined with an 'analysis' of my mind and psyche that was rather … entertaining as a display of his own inadequacy and lack of understanding. Still, I found it mildly offensive."

"Looks like he left an impression."

"I had plenty of time to read in my cell, Will. He was not the only former friend to come forth with information on me, he was just … less subtle than most."

"He got off easy," Will says. It's not like Hannibal to deliver a clean death to someone who has offended him this much.

"I am afraid that I had greater concerns upon our arrival."

"Oh?"

"Your intention was for us to die in the ocean. I found that my intention was to prevent that from happening."

"So I gathered", Will says. He has no idea how it makes him feel. 

Hannibal watches him. He waits, quietly, for Will to meet his gaze. When Will does, he smiles. "Now that you are finally with me, I do not intend to let you go."

"It's not your decision," Will says. "I am not a pet to keep."

"I wouldn't want you to be," Hannibal says. "I very much prefer you as a partner."

"A partner," Will says slowly, with a wry, exhausted smile, "in crime." 

Hannibal acknowledges it with a tilt of his head. "Will you come with me?" 

_Blood in the moonlight, the warmth of Hannibal's body against his own._ There is only one answer. "Yes."

Hannibal stares at him. No one else would be able to follow the range of emotions that shows on his face, pick up on the oh-so-subtle change of expression. Triumph. Excitement. Devotion. Determination. A possessive hunger. Then Hannibal lifts a hand to card through Will's hair. It feels better than it should, and Will closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

"Good," Hannibal whispers. 

Will falls asleep some time later, with Hannibal's hand still in his hair.

~~~~~

Recovery takes time. They spend most of it in a lake house in Maine, close to the Canadian Border. The place is not as expensively furnished as Hannibal's estate in Baltimore, not as ambitiously designed as the cottage on the cliff. It's plain and rather ordinary in comparison, neutral wallpapers, gray carpets and tiles. Three bedrooms, one of them turned into a study. Two bathrooms, a large kitchen connected to a living room with a direct view of the lake and a huge fireplace. Furniture, bedclothes and curtains are all fairly unremarkable. The cellar is stocked with wine and preserved food. The books on the shelves are mostly unread, smelling new. They cover a vast range of topics – art, philosophy, classical literature. The kitchenware is of high quality, stainless steel, hardwood and white china, elegant yet weirdly unobtrusive. The house doesn't look like it belongs to Hannibal. It is far to unassuming.

As Hannibal prepares a meal in the kitchen, Will walks around, then comes to stand in the doorway and watch as Hannibal slices carrots. "Did you buy this house for me?"

Hannibal stills and looks up to Will. "Not for you, per se, but it is a fair assessment to say that I bought it with you in mind."

"When was that?"

"Shortly after your arrest." 

More than five years ago. "You were _that_ sure that I would come with you?"

"There is no absolute certainty in such matters – but all things considered, I would like to claim to have been reasonably sure," Hannibal says. He resumes his slicing. The cooker hood does little to prevent the smell of onions and garlic from spreading through the kitchen. Will's stomach growls. With a hint of surprise, he realizes that he is hungry. He can't remember the last time he had an appetite, but it may have been well before he got Hannibal's letter. It certainly made him feel like his stomach was tied in knots. Now the knots have dissolved and all his senses let him know that there is something delicious cooking in that pot. "It never hurts to be prepared," Hannibal adds and reaches for a zucchini. 

Will hasn't visited the sheds, but he can imagine what he would find. "Let me guess. There is a workshop in your barn."

Hannibal looks up again, a slight smile on his face. "There might be."

Will rests his head against the door frame. "Of course."

After dinner, they retreat to the sitting area. Will lights a fire. Hannibal opens a bottle of wine. Will thinks of the one they didn't get to drink. Well, the one _Hannibal_ didn't get to drink. "How is your wound?" He hasn't asked before. He has seen the way Hannibal holds himself very straight, how he avoids bending too much to one side, every movement considerate and just a little stiff.

"Healing."

"Are you going to let me help you, now that I am on my feet again?"

"Do you want to?" Hannibal asks. It's been this way since Will woke up. Hannibal asks. He waits. He carefully avoids giving the impression that anything Will says or does is a foregone conclusion. "I should probably apply a new dressing."

"Just tell me where everything is."

As Will returns with a box full of bandages, prescription pharmaceuticals, and surgical instruments, Hannibal waits for him, sitting upright on the couch. Will sets the box down next to him and opens it. Hannibal quietly pulls up his sweater and his white undershirt.  
The bullet went through his side, missing all the vital organs. Painful, slow to heal, but not lethal if treated right. Hannibal removes the bandage himself, revealing a line of neat stitches. How he managed to keep his hands this steady, even after being shot – exhaustion blurring his sight and fatigue creeping up his arms – Will will never know. "What should I do?" he asks. He goes down to his knees in front of the couch. Hannibal holds himself carefully still as Will lifts a hand to touch the wound. At the point of contact, Hannibal holds his breath and Will looks up to him. "Does it hurt?"

Hannibal slowly, deliberately exhales. "I have a high tolerance for pain." Will applies a little more pressure with one finger. A slight shiver runs through Hannibal but there is no other reaction, just a measured, controlled rhythm of inhalation and exhalation.

"It looks clean. Not infected." Will sits back, reaching for the bandages. Hannibal watches him but doesn't say anything as he dresses the wound, just rolls down his sweater once they are done. Will returns the box to its place in the broom closet, then heads back into the living room where Hannibal is still sitting in the same place, staring into the fire. 

"Where do we go from here?" Will says.

"Who is 'we'?" Hannibal asks. "You need to be more specific. You and I, Will, or humanity as a whole?"

"This wasn't meant as a philosophical debate – more a practical one. You and I. Provided that there is a 'we' for us at all."

"There most certainly is. Unless you don't want it to be."

Will permits himself a moment to consider. "I am not sure about anything at the moment. What do you want from me?"

"In the general sense, or related to more recent events?"

"Either. Both. You decide."

Hannibal lifts his glass. He inhales, then takes a sip, focusing on nothing but the wine for a moment. He sets it aside and looks at Will. "I would like for us to stay here and recover. In a couple of weeks, I would like to travel to South America. Argentina, or maybe Chile, though I have a strong preference for the former. Would you come with me?"

Will shrugs. "I might."

"One day, I would like to take you to Europe. To Italy, of course, but also to Geneva, Vienna, Prague. One day. Currently, I am afraid that the places I would like to show you the most are where the FBI would look for us first. Under this premise, I believe returning to Europe too soon would be … reckless."

"You were able to hide your presence fairly well the last time."

"I wasn't hiding," Hannibal says. "I was biding my time."

"Waiting for me," Will says. 

"As you well know."

Will takes his own glass to the patio door. The lake lies dark and quiet, except for where the moon paints it silver. He repeats his question. "What do you want from me?" 

"Everything."

Will turns around. He keeps standing with his back to the door and looks at Hannibal from a distance. "Everything is still a little vague."

"Very well, then," Hannibal says. "The answer, for lack of a better word, is _intimacy_. I want to be intimate with you in any way you let me."

"Intimacy," Will repeats. It is a strange word, sophisticated and abstract, threatening with the vast expanse of its meaning. "Of any kind."

"Yes," Hannibal says. "Some aspects are more important than others. Some are … negotiable. But ultimately, there is no part of life and death and everything in between that I don't want to share with you."

An admission. An offer. Conditions and terms. It is so very strange, to be the object of a desire so all-consuming, so all-encompassing. It's not that Will didn't know. He knew long before Bedelia told him – he knew it on a instinctive level, unacknowledged, denied. When you never ask yourself a question, you can pretend that the answer does not matter. But hearing it phrased this way, there is no ambiguity left to hide behind. Laid out like this, the truth comes with the weight of responsibility. He cannot pretend not to know what power this knowledge gives him. Or what the knowledge does to him.

"You want to kill with me," Will says. 

"Yes," Hannibal says without hesitation. "I want you to watch me when I do it. I want to watch you do the same."

Will thinks about it, about taking lives. About seeking out victims with the clear goal in mind to kill them. That is not who he is, it is nothing he can picture himself doing. 

"You know now what it felt like to give in to that urge you've always fought," Hannibal says, as if he knows exactly what Will is thinking. He probably does. "You have felt it all – the excitement, the euphoria of enjoying life to the fullest while bringing death. Will you try to tell me that you do not wish to feel that again?"

"Not like you," Will says. "Not because I found someone annoying, because they fail to tip or spill coffee over my shoes."

"No," Hannibal says. "I would not expect you to. I don't want to see you break. I want to see you bend."

"I already did." _The knife in his hand, slippery with his own blood. The way it feels to sink it deep into a human body._

"It was only ever a matter of time," Hannibal says softly. "You denied us both for so long. You rejected me, you mocked me – everything to convince yourself you did not want this. You couldn't let yourself have this. But now –" There is a barely concealed hunger in gaze. Or maybe it is closer to longing, now that Will lets himself see it. "It was a catharsis, Will, was is not? A rebirth. Blood and the salt of the ocean. Washing away past transgressions. No more grudges. No more forgiveness. No more cruelties."

"I am not a believer and neither are you. Yet you make it sound like a form of baptism."

"A threshold you allowed yourself to cross."

Will takes it as a signal to move again. He steps back to the couch, sitting down on the other end of it, looking at Hannibal. Hannibal turns a little to face him, accommodating, open.. "What does that make me?" Wills asks. "I am not Bluebeard's wife – I already know what you hide in your basement. Who am I to you? Who was Bedelia to you?"

Hannibal's eyebrows lift in increments. "Are you jealous, Will?"

"If anyone were Bluebeard's wife, that would be Alana, wouldn't she?"

Hannibal's lips curve in a delighted, cruel little smile. He leans forward. "Close. Very, very close."

"The one who didn't know. The one who got away. But Bedelia ..."

Hannibal's eyes glow with that dark, simmering intensity. "What do you think?"

"She wanted to be a survivor. She wanted – needed – to be the one who got to survive you. To prove to herself that she could. And for you, she was –"

"An exquisite, beautiful thing. Something to indulge in because you can. A luxury," Hannibal says. "Whereas I am loathe to say that I have found you to be ..." His eyes hold Will's as he finishes his sentence. "… a necessity." 

Will's heart skips a beat. 

"I _crave_ you," Hannibal says. "I saw you in a field of flowers, Will, like an innocent maiden, but I always knew who you could become, the potential in you. I was yearning for you. I knew that nothing else would be enough but all of you, in all your glory."

The revelation runs through him like an electric current. "I am – I am your _Kore._ "

"No. You are my _Persephone._ I laid the pomegranate seeds out for you; an offering."

"Do I belong to you now, to the underworld?" Will asks softly.

"I am not keeping you here. You can leave if you want. No one would question you if you claimed that I abducted you, that you got away or that I let you go."

"You do not let people go."

"Not usually. And yet I let you walk away from me on various occasions."

"Because you knew that I would come looking for you again." Will takes a deep breath. He sets his glass down on the table. Leans back in his corner of the couch. Observes and studies. Hannibal isn't moving. So carefully guarded, motionless, waiting. "You had me on a leash. The first chance you got, you pulled the collar tight."

"Why did you decide to save my life, Will?" 

WIll had intended to let him die; he had almost convinced himself that he would go through with it. "As it turns out, I prefer the world with you in it," Will says. "God knows why."

"Such charming things you say to me," Hannibal says softly. He smiles, and Will finds himself smiling in return. "But then you threw us off a cliff," Hannibal says. "An ambiguous message, wouldn't you agree?"

"Well," Will says, not intending to be anything but honest. "I guess I still believed that the world would be a better place without the both of us."

They keep sitting on the couch while the fire slowly dies down and the room descends into darkness. Will hears Hannibal breathe, senses his presence. Occasionally, one of them takes another sip of wine. When Will rises, ready to retreat into the solitude of his bedroom, he feels Hannibal's eyes on him, making him conscious of every move as he says goodnight and leaves the room.

~~~~~

He dreams of the stag. He dreams of following him through a forest at night, running – not knowing whether he is on a hunt, or lured. When he loses his trail, he finds himself alone, surrounded by darkness that grows claws and fangs to snap at him. They transform into faces as he fights them off with an antler in his hand. Hobbs. Verger. Dolarhyde. A carusel, made up of murderers. He sees a light in the darkness and slowly starts toward it. Faces hiss at him, Freddie Lounds with her hair coiling like snakes. Snails under his feet, well-fed. He reaches a clearing with a hospital bed. Molly is lying on it, her face obscured by a veil. As Will comes closer, Frederick Chilton takes out her liver, studying it with an air of curiosity.

As he finally wakes, he is drenched in sweat. He reaches for the nightstand in the unfamiliar room. An alarm clock clatters to the ground before he finds a switch for the bedside lamp. His heart is beating too fast. He throws the comforter off and stumbles out of bed, barely thinking about where he is. He climbs downstairs and doesn't bother to turn on lights as he fills a glass of water at the kitchen sink and drains it. His heartbeat slows down eventually and he stands in the dark, feeling cold and a little lost, or maybe like he has lost something but forgotten what it was.

"Will."

The glass almost slips from his fingers. He turns around. Hannibal is standing at the foot of the stairs, looking at him, wearing a bathrobe over a dark pajama that looks like it would be soft to the touch. "Did you have a nightmare?" 

Will nods slowly. The glass is empty and he puts it into the sink, failing to accurately calculate the distance so that the noise of glass meeting steel is uncomfortably loud. 

"What were you dreaming of?"

"It's not very sophisticated," Will says. "Blood and carnage; the usual. Do you ever have nightmares?"

"No."

"Thought so."

"Will," Hannibal says – not a question, not quite a statement.

"Yes?"

Hannibal finally takes a couple of steps toward him. Quietly, so slowly that Will has all the time in the world to step back. He doesn't. 

"Do you dream of Abigail?" 

"Often."

"And do you dream of me?"

"What do you think?" Will runs a hand through his hair. He smiles tiredly. "I dreamed of you long before I know who you really were. I _hallucinated_ you." 

"Tell me about it. Please."

"Antlers. That's how it started. With Cassie Boyle."

"Antlers." 

"A stag. You turned into a wendigo halfway through."

Hannibal tilts his head to the side, a half-nod. "How fitting."

"I wish it hadn't taken me so long to know what it meant."

"The outcome might have been different. I think it serves to prove a different point, Will. We were always drawn to each other, were we not?"

"You got into my brain and I couldn't get you out. Still can't." 

For a second, there is silence, only broken by a small drop of water dripping from the faucet into the sink, the almost inaudible ticking of a wall clock.

"Would you like me to hold you?" Hannibal asks softly.

Will forces out a laugh, tries not to feel the effect the words have on him. "What does the fine print say about the terms and conditions?"

"No fine print," Hannibal says.

"Earlier tonight, you said that some things were negotiable. Sounds a lot like fine print and user agreements to me. I wouldn't want to sign up for something I don't intend to buy."

"It is the middle of the night. Do not make it more complicated than it is."

Will looks at him. It is dark, both of them are injured and exhausted. Will thinks of the nightmare. It was different. This time, the stag has not been the frightening at all. "All right, then. Yes."

Another moment passes where neither of them moves. Then Hannibal takes two quick steps toward him. Will straightens his shoulders, braces himself, not sure what is going to happen. But Hannibal does not touch him right away; instead, he pauses in front of him. Ever so slowly, he lifts a hand to cup Will's cheek. Will blinks, trying not to think of the last time Hannibal touched him like this and the knife to his gut that followed. He lets out a breath, a sigh, and leans into the touch. He closes his eyes. 

"Oh, Will," Hannibal says so very softly

Will opens his eyes again and nods, then lifts his left hand to lay it on Hannibal's shoulder. Their embrace is a reiteration of the moment on the cliff, right before the fall. Or rather, a continuation, as they don't fall this time. They move closer together, their heads coming to rest on each other's shoulders. Hannibal is solid, substantial in a way that reality has so often failed to be. 

They keep holding on to each other in the dark kitchen for a long time.

~~~~~

The next morning, Hannibal redresses his wounds and carefully removes the bandage from his cheek. He hands Will a small shaving mirror. Will winces as he sees the wound for the first time, an ugly line of stitches, the skin colored in an ugly, angry red. Hannibal's hand comes up to touch it, trace the sutures, and Will shies back from the touch by instinct. Hannibal cups his chin. "Hold still, please."

He carefully dabs at the wound with a pad, imbued with hydrogen peroxide, while his other hand keeps holding Will in place. The touch lingers even after the dabbing has stopped. 

"This will likely scar," Hannibal says. 

"Does that bother you?"

"No." 

"Even though you weren't the one who put it there?" Hannibal looks at him but doesn't answer the question. "Oh, you like the idea, of course. Is it because I got it when I killed someone?"

"Because you got it when you killed someone for me."

"I have enough scars on me as it is."

"All of them with meaning," Hannibal says. "You are marked, but not in a bad way."

"You would think so," Will says. Hannibal finishes dressing the wound. His eyes linger on Will's face. "Do you still have the brand on your back?" Will asks. He doesn't quite know why.

"Yes."

"There is a certain irony in that. You treat other people like meat, but ultimately, you are just the same as all of us."

"I am sure Mason Verger would be delighted to learn of your appreciation of his artistic vision," Hannibal says, putting the hydrogen peroxide aside. He throws a handful of used pads into the trashcan. 

"Show me," Will says. "I want to see it." He isn't sure, but it almost seems as if Hannibal is surprised by his demand.

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine?" Will doesn't answer. He keeps looking at Hannibal. "Very well." Hannibal pulls off his suit jacket and unbuttons his shirt and carefully hangs them both over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He is wearing an undershirt underneath. Will watches as he pulls it over his head and lays it on top of the chair. Hannibal stills, giving Will time to look at his bare chest, the reddened wound at his side, just as ugly as Will‘s. As Will lifts his gaze and their eyes meet, Hannibal nods and turns around. 

Will gets up from his chair. Hannibal remains standing as Will approaches him from behind. Will has never seen the brand in person, but Alan has described it to him, and he has read the initial report on Hannibal when he got arrested, has seen the pictures. It was the last thing he read before he found the strength to leave. "Can I touch it?"

"Yes," Hannibal says. There is no hesitation in his words.

Will lifts a hand and traces the outer circle of the brand. Hannibal remains rigid under his touch, his powerful shoulders tense. What kind of reaction is he trying to suppress? Will pulls his hand back, considers touching Hannibal's shoulders. A part of him wants to. It seems like a logical conclusion to an already intimate touch. 

_Intimate._ Will lets his hand drop. He takes a step back, then hands Hannibal his undershirt before he locates his own shirt and pulls it on. He is all too aware of Hannibal's eyes on him. Hannibal's constant awareness of anything Will does, anything he says – it's nothing new. But lately, it as become charged, fraught with meaning. Holding a weight that it didn't have before. Now that Will has taken the blindfold off, he can't unsee.

He just doesn't know what to do about it.

~~~~~

That evening, Will goes to bed early. He lies awake in the dark, thinking it through. Hannibal has made it abundantly clear what he wants from Will: anything he is willing to give and then some. Knowing Hannibal, he is not going to be content with letting Will decide how much that is. He is going to keep pushing. Intimacy, in this situation, translates to a lack of barriers between them in all situations. Physical intimacy, sexual intimacy – they are all different aspects of it. Whatever happens between them is never going to be impersonal, or meaningless. It will be another piece to fall into place.

Will has never been sexually attracted to a man before, never been aroused by the sight of a male body. He's never felt a tug of desire when looking at a man, not the way it happened with women.

He has also never felt for a woman the way he feels for Hannibal, has never been drawn to someone as he is drawn to him. 

At the time when he was still desperately trying to create barriers to keep Hannibal out of his mind, out of his life, it never occurred to him to assume Hannibal would have any interest in a sexual relationship. It was not a thought to dismiss, it was just – not even a consideration. Now that it is, the idea to create a barrier for this specifically, when all others have already crumbled, appears ludicrous. 

The question is not so much if, Will realizes, the question is when, and how. 

The thought isn't as disconcerting as it should be for a man who has always thought of himself as straight, who has never questioned his sexuality. There was never a reason to. There isn't one now. It's not Hannibal's _body_ he is attracted to; if only it were that simple.

~~~~~

Days pass in much the same way. Now and then, they go out to buy supplies. Hannibal sets some things into motion; he doesn't talk about it. They lay low. Hannibal's escape and speculation on their whereabouts are all over the media. They FBI finds the cottage at last, half a week into their self-imposed exile. Finds Dolarhyde. They miraculously manage to keep the press from connecting Hannibal's disappearance with the burglary and the house fire that killed Doctor Phillip Stapleton in Massachusetts, but it can't be long until Freddie Lounds or someone else adds two and two and comes up with four. For now, the media coverage focuses on Dolarhyde, Chilton, and speculations about Hannibal's plans for revenge. Will can only assume that dozens of employees of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane are currently applying for police protection because they all recall that one occasion where they might have been less than impeccably polite toward Dr. Lecter.

It takes a week for Will to be able to eat something other than soup. The wound hurts, but it heals. So does the knife wound on his chest. He starts getting restless as the days pass. He misses Molly. He misses his dogs.

Another couple of days, and Will packs an overnight bag. He puts it on the kitchen table for Hannibal to see. "I need to go back this once," he says. "For closure."

"I understand," Hannibal says. 

"I'll come back.".

"I know."

"Don't kill people in my absence."

Hannibal smiles faintly at his bowl of salad. "I promise to behave if you do."

~~~~~

With Dolarhyde dead, there is no reason for Molly and Walter to remain in protective custody. Will finds them on the first try in Iowa, where Molly's sister Rebecca lives in an old renovated farmhouse. He considers ringing the doorbell, decides against it when he realizes that he does not trust Rebecca or her husband not to call the police on him.

In the end, he calls Molly from a burner phone he got specifically for the occasion. "Can you come and meet me outside?" he asks. 

He hears her take in a sharp breath. "Will?"

"Molly, please. I'm here. I just can't stay."

When she comes out to meet him, her face is guarded. She keeps her hands in her pocket. 

The thing that he likes most about her, the thing that made him ask her out for coffee when they first met, is the fact that she so straightforward. No mind games. No metaphors. Molly is open-minded, optimistic, and she never pretends - deception is foreign to her. It made being with her feel like spring, new and bright and hopeful. She never let him get away with excuses. Today is no exception.

"Are you with him?" she asks. 

There is no way to soften the blow, no way to lie to her. "Yes." The light in her eyes fades a little and he hates himself for it. "I am so sorry. I …" She shakes her head and Will falls silent. 

"Are we in danger?" she asks. "Do I need to take Walter and run?"

Will shakes his head. "No. He has what he wants. He would not take the risk of losing me over this. You'll be safe." 

"Safe," she says, voice just this side of brittle. "Safe is good. Are you going to be safe with him, Will?"

"No," he says. "But it's where I need to be."

She pulls her arms out of her jacket and crosses them over her chest. "Is it where you _want_ to be?" 

A loaded question, in so many ways, but there is only one way to make this right. He can't make her doubt, can't make her want to go back. The cut needs to be clean. Surgical. He wants her to survive. 

"Yes," he says. 

"What is this man to you?" she asks. There is no accusation in her tone, and for a second, Will considers telling her, telling her everything. _He is the ghost that I cannot banish. He's the monster of your worst nightmares, but when he saw me, he recognized a kindred spirit. Salvation, damnation, aren't they one and the same? When I am with him, it feels like they are._

He wonders if Molly would be capable of understanding him if he only told her, if he actually tried to put it into words. Who, if not her, deserves the truth? But then, what would it accomplish? Whatever he says won't make a difference, won't change the outcome. He's hurt her enough as it is, he doesn't need to drag her into it, the Gordian knot of his thoughts and emotions and needs. 

So instead of answering her question, Will shakes his head and steps back. He longs to take her into his arms one more time, but he has forfeited that right. She wouldn't let him either, or at least he hopes so, because Molly has more self-respect than that. "Take care, Molly," he says. "Tell Wally – tell him whatever you think is best. What you need to tell him to make sure he stays safe."

"Clean up your mess, you mean," she says, and now her voice sounds like broken piece of glass, ugly and sharp and ragged. "I think you better go before I start yelling at you." 

"The dogs –"

"They are in the house. Do you want them? What for? The dogs will be fine without you, Will. We will all be just fine. Go." She turns around. He watches her go, watches her reach the door, lean her head against it. Her shoulders are shaking. 

He's never before seen her cry. 

The dogs start barking inside. Will turns around and walks to his car. His hands are itching to hit something, anything. Isn't that the way it goes? Men screw up, they resort to violence, blaming life and circumstances for their own failures. Should he start drinking, just to complete the picture? He opens the door and sits down on the driver's seat. He can still hear voices and barking from inside the house, but he doesn't turn around. He turns the ignition key. 

From the corner of his eyes, he sees the door of the farmhouse open, and then a dog is running toward the car. Will hits the brakes before he can think better of it; the car swerves and comes to a standstill. Will opens the door, only to get an armful of dog: muddy paws and a wagging tail, dog breath and a lolling tongue. Winston wears a collar with a leash attached to it, wound tightly around his chest to ensure he'd be able to run without getting caught in the fence. 

At the farmhouse, the door closes, and the lights go out. 

Will sits in the car for a long time, holding on to Winston, who presses himself against his chest. The lapdog that wasn't. "It guess from now on, pack's just going to be you and me," Will says. "And Hannibal. But I assume you'll get to travel a lot." He laughs, a little desperately, and runs a hand through his hair. He starts the car again. He's been here for too long already; if Jack is keeping Molly under surveillance, he'll show up soon. 

He drives through the night. In the morning, he is back in Maine, Winston dozing on the back seat. He calls Hannibal after a stop at the supermarket. "I'm bringing someone." 

A telltale silence. "Breakfast will be ready," Hannibal says after a long moment.

~~~~~

As he arrives at the house, the table is set for two and a bowl with dog food stands in the hallway. Will leaves Winston to explore the yard while he enters the kitchen. Hannibal stands at the stove. For a moment, Will regards him silently. His appearance is not remarkable, there is nothing to indicate that this man is more dangerous than the average person. Attentive, observant, intelligent and polite. Charming, with a cordial warmth that seems to come naturally to him.

Hannibal looks at him. "Sit down, if you please. It'll only be a minute."

Will nods and returns to the living area. When Hannibal follows in a moment later, he pauses on his way to brush a hand over Will's shoulder. "I take it everything went well?"

"Depends on your definition of the word," Will says. "She knows. She knows I won't come back."

"Does she?"

Will nods. He takes up the spoon, intending to eat the omelet on his plate until he realizes he's not hungry. He makes himself take a bite anyway. 

"Then you set her free. It is not an entirely bad thing."

"For whom?" 

Hannibal doesn't answer the question.

~~~~~

"What did it feel like?" Hannibal asks later. They are sitting on the patio, enjoying the view over the lake. Winston lies at Will's feet, content. He doesn't seem to be missing his pack. He has always been more attached to Will than any of the others.

"Are you asking as my psychiatrist? Because that question sounds remarkably like one I've heard before." 

"Do you see me as your psychiatrist?" Hannibal asks and Will just shakes his head. 

"It felt surreal." 

"How so?"

He takes his time to think about it. "A few weeks ago, it was my life. I saw her every day, held her every night. I told Walter to do his homework. We talked about trivial things. Can you take the dogs out tonight? Have you bought toilet paper? When you live together for a while, a lot of conversation is related to mundane things. Even more so when you have a child to care for, and dogs. And believe it or not, I … I appreciated it. Normalcy."

"Many people do."

"When I stood in front of her … you know what the worst thing was?"

"I could guess, but I would rather hear it from you."

"It felt like saying goodbye to a dream. It felt … like waking." 

"Do you feel sorry?"

Will looks at Hannibal. "How couldn't I? I do, and a part of me always will. But mostly it feels … liberating."

"What is your greatest regret? The loss of her? Or is it something else?"

"Hurting her," Will says. "She deserved better. She deserved … someone who wouldn't call it a lie, this life." 

"If that is the case, then leaving her meant doing her a favor. Not now, maybe, but in the long run."

"Are you trying to make me feel better? Or are you only trying to reinforce the message that I belong here with you?"

Hannibal tilts his head a fraction, admitting a point. "What if the answer is both?"

"I don't care," Will says. "I wish her a long, happy life. I hope that one day, our marriage will be like a dream for her too. Something that didn't matter as much as she thought it did. I hope she gets a divorce, has me declared dead." 

"Sometimes liberation comes with pain."

Will shakes his head. "I think we should stop talking about it." If he has to hear any more of Hannibal's well-phrased, well-delivered aphorisms, this might turn ugly. Uglier than it already is. 

"As you wish," Hannibal says, and Will takes every victory he can get.

~~~~~

He has caught up on sleep during the day. At night, he lies awake, tossing and turning in his bed. What is he doing here? Does this make any sense, any sense at all? What kind of madness makes him play house with a serial killer? He knows how it will look like on paper, in the file the FBI has on him, his relationship with Hannibal.

It's past midnight as he gets up. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights as he crosses the hallway and opens the door to Hannibal's room. Hannibal lies in bed, sleeping, clad into a plain pajama, not unlike his prison suit. He is turned to the side and Will can't see his face. He wants to, actually; he can't recall whether he ever saw Hannibal sleeping – real sleep, not a nap. He takes a few steps into the room, to the right side of the bed. Asleep, Hannibal looks very ordinary with his graying hair, face lax. Does he snore in bed, does he drool? Right now, he is doing neither. 

What would it be like to have a relationship with him that extends to the physical? To sleep together, share a bed, a bathroom? He could ask Alana, or Bedelia, only that when he sees either of them again, it won't be for a friendly visit. 

What is he doing? These days, he wonders why he went with Hannibal. What made Dolarhyde's death so different? 

As he looks at Hannibal again, Hannibal's eyes are open. "You didn't knock." His voice sounds softer than usual while his accent is pronounced. 

"Sorry."

"You needn't apologize." 

The keep looking at each other. Not for the first time, Will wishes he had the slightest idea of Hannibal's thought process. He can understand his motives, his reasons – but not the way his mind works; not the way he comes to conclusions, the way he settles on the best course of action. 

"Can't sleep?" Hannibal asks. "I could get up and make a cup of tea."

Will shakes his head. Hannibal's eyes are dark, heavy-lidded. He props himself up on one elbow. "Will." Will doesn't answer, averts his gaze only to look at Hannibal again a few seconds later. "What do you want?" 

"I wish I knew." He is lacking perspective, lacking common sense, lacking a compass. All he knows is that he has been in freefall since the night he left Molly at the farm. 

"You could come here," Hannibal says softly. "Sleep here. You don't have to be alone." 

A bad idea, or maybe not. Will is bone-tired. With all this thoughts keeping him awake, it can hardly be worse. 

"Fine." He lifts one side of the comforter to slide into the bed, and lies down on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling. "Just …" 

Will wonders what Hannibal would do if he kissed him. Would be shown any kind of surprise? Would he take it as an invitation? Would he hold still and allow himself to be kissed without trying to take control? Hannibal hasn't been with anyone in three years. Does he miss sex? The answer to these questions might disclose more than Will would be comfortable with, a door he's not sure he wants to open, let alone step through.

The bed smells of Hannibal, although the scent is not as strong as expected. Will doesn't know whether Hannibal has changed his sheets since their arrival, but if he had to guess, he would expect Hannibal to change them at least once a week. Will hasn't changed his own yet, even though he sweats through his nightclothes on a pretty much nightly basis. But he likes his bed as a place where his own private smell is prevalent, sometimes to the point of stinking. There is nothing that spells out home quite as distinctly as a bed that smells of you and the long hours you spent there. Living with Molly, the sheets were changed every other week. As a bachelor, he sometimes went two months without changing. He can only imagine how Hannibal, whose sense of smell is so much stronger, would feel about that. 

A person's individual smell. Hannibal's has become familiar to him through long hours spent in his house and has started resurfacing during these past two weeks, while he returned to wearing his own clothes and use his own detergent and shaving cream.

Hannibal's hand touches his hair, stopping his train of thoughts. 

Will exhales. With the touch comes relief. There is nothing here for him to be afraid of, and the knowledge slowly sinks into him, makes him sink into the mattress in turn. It all slowly drains away, guilt and anger and sadness. He shouldn't feel safe with a murderer in his bed, a cold-blooded killer, but he does, and what does it say about him? 

On the other hand, it hardly matter what others would say, what they might think if they saw him here. In the realm of death, the thoughts and opinions of the living matter little and less. 

"Goodnight, Will," Hannibal says. 

Will turns his head to the side, trapping Hannibal's hand under his head. He gives a small smile with surprising ease. "Goodnight."

~~~~~

Another couple of days and he can feel both himself and Hannibal getting restless. They need to come to a decision, and soon, but Will is silently dreads the outcome. His wounds are mostly healed. The scar on his cheek is still raw and red. It will fade a little, over time, but for now, the most sensible cause is to cover it up when he leaves the house. Hannibal brings him make-up and helps him apply it with the deft hand of an artist. Hannibal's finger are reverent on his skin, there is no other word for it, careful and gentle, tilting his chin this way, than that way. Will permits it.

For these past weeks, Hannibal's touches have gradually become more frequent. Most of them stay fleeting – brushing his neck in passing, squeezing his shoulder when Hannibal leans forward to put a dish in front of him, palm briefly resting on his forearm while he tells Will how to slice the pears. They are neither intrusive nor greedy, yet Will has started to become hyperaware of them, caught between anticipation and pleasure. In a way, his own reaction answers any questions about where they are heading. 

Hannibal is courting him, slowly grooming him to become accustomed to his touch, and Will lets it happen.

"I am afraid that this is the best I can do," Hannibal says. He puts the brush down and turns Will's head to the left, then back, to regard his face from different angles. As his left hand slowly lets go, his thumb lingers on Will's jaw for a little too long. "Most people will not be able to notice anything off."

"You would."

"I would be able to smell it," Hannibal says. 

"I imagine your heightened sense of smells usually works in your favor."

"Usually."

"When does it not?"

"In a crowd of people with no taste," Hannibal says. "The odor of a large group of people is …unique, but not very recommendable."

"Sweat, unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, too many different spices, the food everyone ate ..."

"Exactly."

Will won't ask whether Hannibal likes his scent. Hannibal probably does, or Will would be long dead. 

"You haven't eaten human meat in a while. Do you miss it?" 

Hannibal looks at him. "I miss being able to cook with a vast variety of ingredients."

"Does it make sense to eat humans at all? If you buy your beef or pork from an ethical butcher, isn't that a lot more healthy than human organs with all their chemical and pharmaceutical residues? "

Hannibal lifts his eyebrows at him from where he is bent over the cosmetic case. "What does your insight tell you?"

Will snorts. "You don't eat them because they are delicious. You eat them out of spite. And because it's a challenge to prepare human meat in a way that nobody realizes it isn't pork. If you had no one to impress, though, and no message to send, would you still eat them?"

"A good question," Hannibal says. "Are you asking out of concern for your health, or your morality?"

"If it is all the same to you," Will says, "I would like a warning before you feed me human meat."

Hannibal nods, half-amused. "Duly noted. If you allow me one question –"

"Yes?"

"When you provided meat for our shared meal that once, you led me to believe it belonged to Freddie Lounds. Where did it actually come from?"

"Randall Tier."

Hannibal's lips twitch. "After all, he was already dead. Convenient. Did you cut it out of him yourself?"

"Yes," Will say. "I did think of killing her, you know. What it would feel like to slaughter her like a pig." He watches Hannibal's eyes widen just a little, his pleasure obvious at the thought. 

"How did it feel to eat human meat knowing what it was? Did it take a lot of mental effort to prepare yourself for it?"

"No," Will says. "You expected me to react in some way or another, so I focused on the thought of deceiving you."

"What did you feel in that moment?"

"Hatred," Will says. "Grim satisfaction when you fell for it." That hadn't been all, there had been a part of him, even then, that had reveled in Hannibal's taciturn approval, the warmth of a camaraderie he hadn't truly earned, that he wanted nevertheless.

"Your deception was masterfully staged."

"I learned from the best."

Hannibal smiles, taking visible delight at that.

~~~~~

That night, they talk about Argentina. Until they don't.

"We should just go," Will says. The suspense is doing neither of them any good; he is aching to move forward, start to build something – a life, from the scratch, with no one left to know the old him.

"It's a long way. I'd like to make sure that everything is in order. I'd hate to leave business … unfinished."

"Something particular on your mind?" Will asks. They are preparing dinner. Hannibal has awarded him the task of slicing bell peppers and celery. Hannibal still mostly sticks to things like stew and soup, which are easy to chew. It occurs to Will that maybe it isn't the best situation to start this particular discussion, not when they are both holding onto sharp kitchen utensils. 

"I made a promise to an old friend of mine," Hannibal says. "From what I have gathered, she has left her most recent residence behind – making it more difficult to find her. A challenge, but one I'll enjoy taking on."

It was a minor announcement among many on Tattlecrime that Doctor Alana Bloom had resigned from the BSHCI and gone into hiding. 

"How about no," Will says. 

"I wasn't asking for permission, Will," Hannibal says. He turns to the fridge to take out the cooked leftover chicken. Turns his back to Will. 

Will puts the knife down. "How is this going to work if you insist on killing people that I don't want to see killed?" 

Hannibal turns around again, the box in hand. "You do not get to keep me on a leash, Will."

"You said you made a promise to her. Did it come with a time frame?" 

"Are you trying to bargain?"

"Am I? I don't know. Are you trying to prove something? She's gone into hiding. You won't find her without considerable effort. What for?"

Hannibal looks at him. His face is unreadable. "I rarely make promises, Will, but when I do, I keep them."

"I made promises too," Will says. "To Molly, among other things."

"Your promises are your business, Will."

"Bu you are perfectly fine with me breaking them."

" _Au contraire_ ," Hannibal says. "Was your promise to her 'til death us do part'? That's what they call a loophole, I believe. If you'd rather be released from your promise –"

The unveiled threat makes Will clench his hands. "No. Our vows were to have and to hold, to protect." His voice breaks. "That was a cheap shot, and you know it."

"If you want me to stay out of your business, Will, then maybe you should award me the same courtesy."

"How about this: I don't go back to my ex, and you don't go back to yours."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "An amusing inversion."

"Alana isn't a threat to you," Will says. "For the rest of her life, she'll be afraid that you are going to find her. She'll raise her kid knowing you could take her from him any day. It will poison anything she does, taint it. She'll pull away from Margo. She'll be distant, she has to be, to protect them. Can't that knowledge be enough?"

"Oh, Will."

"You don't have to go out of your way looking for her," Will says. "She ran. She did it to protect her wife and child. You could – postpone, at the very least."

"It sounds increasingly like an attempt to bargain."

"I have nothing to offer," Will says. "And nothing to threaten you with, even if I wanted to. The truth is, I don't know what I'll do if you go after Alana, and I don't want to find out. Don't kill her. Please."

The flinch is minute, Will wouldn't see it if reading Hannibal's face hadn't started to become one of his favorite pastimes. "You are in no position to ask this of me," Hannibal says.

"I can ask, you don't have to indulge me. It is your decision."

"Would you try to stop me?"

"I don't know. It hasn't turned out all that well whenever I tried to keep you from doing something. But I would resent you for forcing that decision on me."

"I appreciate your honesty," Hannibal says. "Even if I were to spare Alana's life – there are still other people I would like to pay a visit to. Would you come with me, or prefer to stay away from it?"

"Bedelia, I assume," Will says. Hannibal confirms it with a half-nod. "I can't say that I would be horribly distraught if you killed her. But I feel like I owe her. We had … a couple of very enlightening discussions."

"What about?"

"You, of course. You already knew that; you just wanted to hear me say it."

"How far, do you think, does this sense of obligation extend?" Hannibal takes the lid of the box and adds the chicken to the pot, his attention seemingly focused on his cooking so that the conversation sound casual when it is anything but. 

"She saved my sanity. She believed me when no one else would. If it were in my power, I would prefer not to kill her. But …" Will holds back until Hannibal looks up to meet his gaze. "You don't have to kill her to eat her. Parts of her, anyway."

"What a perfidious thought," Hannibal says, clearly entertained. "I like it. What do you think, which part of her should we take?"

"You decide," Will says. "She's not my concern."

"As opposed to Alana," Hannibal says. "How very callous of you, weighing Alana's life against hers – knowing that you will only persuade me to spare one of them."

"If you turn this in a game of you against me, we will both lose," Will says.

"Very well. Would you care to accompany me to dinner with Bedelia?"

"If would be rude to decline such an invitation."

His answer sparks something in Hannibal, some emotional response Will cannot really discern. Hannibal continues with his dinner preparations while Will quickly finishes slicing the bell pepper and leans against the kitchen counter. It is a little mesmerizing to watch Hannibal, his movements, efficient and in control. Back when they first met each other, he had been too preoccupied to take notice beyond a superficial level of acknowledging proficiency. Later, he hadn't permitted himself, too uncomfortable with his own fixation. Now, with no other place to be, nothing else to demand his attention, he can let himself look. 

Hands, carefully arranging basil leaves on pre-heated soup-bowls. The design has taken form in Hannibal's mind, his hands merely bring it to fruition. He applies the same kind of precision to dinner preparation as to one of his drawings, or one of his displays of a body. Even the slow and torturous reshaping of a human mind. To him, it is all the same: an expression of ideas. Whether the result is a five-course menu, a new piece of music, or the desecration of a corpse. It's easy to see how his killings satisfy many of his creative impulses at once. Art and murder. Anyone who relishes the former but shies away from the latter is incapable of truly understanding Hannibal Lecter. Anyone who creates a divide where for Hannibal, there is none – regarding him as a case of Dr. Jeykill and Mr. Hyde – inevitably has to fail. 

"You keep looking at me," Hannibal says. "Dinner is almost ready." He looks up from his pot. "Would you set the table, please?"

"Of course," Will says. Their eyes stay locked for a long moment until Hannibal finally looks away and starts filling soup into bowls. Not a single drop spills from the ladle. Will smiles, then does as he is asked.

~~~~~

That evening, he goes for a long walk with Winston. He needs time for himself, clinging to the illusion of being an independent person, instead of one reluctant half of a truly dysfunctional whole. As he returns, Hannibal has retreated to his study. Winston lies down in the hallway, on the pillow Will bought for him, sighs and yawns and pretty much instantly falls asleep. Will bends down to pet him. He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, then knocks on the door to the study.

"Will. Come on in," Hannibal says, rising from his chair. His eyes are on Will as he enters the room. Hannibal's attention is something Will has gotten used to, it has been generously been bestowed upon him from the first day they met. He's the prime subject of scrutiny whenever they are in the same room. Unnerving at first, it is now something he has come to expect. When they are in the same room, no one else even remotely matters. Will is honest enough with himself to admit that he likes it that way.

He takes a seat in front of the desk. Hannibal pours him a glass of wine, leaving Will to wonder if he ever drinks something stronger, just to get drunk. The thought of Hannibal getting smashed makes him smile. 

"What puts you in such a good mood?" Hannibal asks. "Or shouldn't I ask?"

"It is not really important," Will says. "I'd like to get back to our discussion before dinner. Your unfinished business." 

"Yes, that." 

"You and I both know that there is one other thing."

"If I had to wager a guess, I would say that it won't take long until this issue becomes a pressing one. How long will it take for Jack to find us here?" 

A good question. According to the news, Jack is suspended, and likely under investigation after his spectacular failure to catch Dolarhyde, and Dolarhyde's subsequent bloody demise. "It depends on his resources."

"Is your wife going to confide in him, what do you think?"

"It doesn't matter. Jack will figure it out anyway." There is nothing in this world to keep him from doing so. Jack has little to lose. He is going to come for them. If Hannibal is Hades to Will's Persephone, then Jack is Demeter, ready to raise heaven and hell in his search for his wayward daughter. Or son, as the case may be. 

"Then we should take measures to prevent him from intervening at a point where it would be … inconvenient for him to do so," Hannibal says.

"Would you regret killing him?" Will asks. "Or enjoy it?"

"Why do you think that the two are mutually exclusive?"

"Not mutually exclusive, but I assume that one would take precedence."

"Truth be told, Will, I am not quite sure," Hannibal says. "Based on circumstance, it might be either. Be that as it may, I think that Jack is _your_ unfinished business rather than mine. He did not come to Florence for _me_."

If Jack believes that there is a chance to find Will alive, to get him back from what Jack thinks of as insanity, he will come. "If he comes for us, we'll kill him," Will says. "But not before."

"I don't intend to give anyone an opportunity to arrest me again," Hannibal says. 

"Neither do I. We'll give him a chance. A message. A letter, or a phone call. If he comes after us anyway …"

"Will it stop him?"

Will considers it. Jack's stubbornness, his righteousness. His loyalty. He won't stop looking for them. He knows enough of them both to track them down. It might take years, but in the end, he'll find them. Jack does not have an instinctual understanding of the minds of others. What he does have in spades is patience and tenaciousness, a methodical, organized mind. "No. But killing him now would be risky. It would attract others, draw them to us all the same."

"None of them would know us as well as he does."

"Risk assessment. We lay low, leave the country, the FBI won't give him the resources to hunt us down; not after he screwed up so royally with you. We kill him, their best shot at getting at us will be gone, but they will send their blood hounds after us. They'll have proof that we‘re alive."

"Then what do we do to decide the fate of poor Jack?" Hannibal asks. 

"What do you think? If I get a say in what happens to Alana and Bedelia, I think you should be awarded the same right."

"Quid pro quo," Hannibal says. "I have always found the concept intriguing."

"What would you do it it were up to you?"

Hannibal looks at him for a long moment. Then his lips curve into a smile. He opens a drawer, and after a moment, pulls out a coin. "I think it would be only fitting to let fate decide, don't you?"

It is utterly insane, utterly reprehensible. Will feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Why not?" Jack will have a fair chance. "Head or tail?"

"Head, he lives," Hannibal says and tosses the coin.

Will doesn't feel much of anything as he watches the slice of silver cut through the air, as the coin lands on the back of Hannibal's hand, covered by his other palm. Hannibal takes his palm away and slowly holds out his hand for Will to see the coin, lying heads-up. 

Will takes one breath. He doesn't know whether he's relieved or disappointed. "I'll give him a call. Leave a warning for him before we leave."

"Give him my regards," Hannibal says, and Will huffs out a laugh, knowing that this is exactly what Hannibal wants him to do, in complete sincerity.

~~~~~

That night, he dreams of Hannibal again. He's at home, in bed with Molly, but it's difficult to see her face. Between one breath and the next, she turns into Alana, and then her face fades away entirely until it is only a body under him, soft sighs and breathy moans. He thrusts into her and it's Hannibal's voice in his ears, telling him how good it is. Whispering things to him in the dark, always beside him, watching him intently.  
He is hard when he wakes and it doesn't take rocket science to figure it out: his subconsciousness has caught up to Hannibal's carefully staged seduction at last.

Will turns to his back. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling in the dark. He is still hard, softening slowly as he breathes in an out, trying to clear his mind. The tension is still there, lurking underneath.

Again – it's not a question of if. Merely of when, and how.

He could wait. He could just allow this to happen, let things come to their natural conclusion. It might take months, or even years before they ever take that one final step – a subtle touch turning into a lingering caress. Already they are well on their way, so he thinks it will happen sooner rather than later. He could actively try to prevent it, cling to his heterosexuality like a lifeline tied to his old life, one last means of escape from this, between them. 

A rejection of anything Hannibal was offering hasn't served him well in the past. Will can imagine, vividly, what would happen if he made an attempt to find sexual gratification elsewhere. It's almost given that he would find his partner to be the aperitif, main course, and dessert of a menu a few days later. The thought should be disconcerting, but for some reason it isn't. It is exciting, in a way, to know how much power he truly has. How possessive Hannibal feels toward him.

It comes down to two choices, letting himself be wood, and won over, or take the initiative. Let Hannibal control the narrative, or rewrite the story to fit them both.

Well, then, all right. Will closes his eyes and deliberately thinks about it, what it would feel like. Putting himself in Hannibal's hands, surrendering.

Hannibal would know what to do, would have explored all aspects of sexuality in his twenties, women, men, toys and restraints and corporeal punishment, all of it in various combinations. He would have wanted to watch it all, witness it even if his own tastes didn't run that way: child molesters, tricks, rape, bestiality. He has probably seen it all and killed them after, displayed them in a fashion to indicate their crimes, their tastes. The pedophile in a playsuit, ass and mouth forced open by a huge dildo. The trick with his head taken off, arranged between his legs to fellate himself. The man in a coat of sheepskin, his head and genitals replaced by a ram's. 

Will has the strong feeling that if he went go looking for these kills – or similar ones – he would be able to find them, recognize them based on a death report and the fact that Hannibal was living in the area at the time. 

Hannibal would know what to do, on a purely technical level. His fingers, so skilled, would aim to elicit responses from Will, turn him into an instrument for Hannibal to play. Hannibal would make him fall apart. Another art form mastered, another craft to excel in. He would take pleasure in making his partner come, see them unravel before him. 

Will's breath is coming faster. His palms are sweaty. He wants to touch himself, explore the thought further. Instead he forces himself to relax, to picture it a different way. What would the opposite feel like? Being the one to play. He has no experience with men, but Hannibal isn't just any man. This isn't about a satisfying performance, or a pornographic fantasy. It's about who they are to each other. Not only about how vulnerable Will can allow himself to be, but about how Hannibal would let their roles be reversed. He imagines his hands on Hannibal, tracing his scars. What would it feel like to turn the touch into something more intimate? He can see himself doing it easily, but the image stuck in his mind has an academical, clinical quality to it, failing to evoke an emotional, let alone a sexual response.

~~~~~

The next evening, Will returns from his nightly walk with Winston, dripping wet from a sudden downpour. He opens the front door, pads into the house to get hold of a towel from the downstairs bathroom, one for Winston, one for himself. He gives Winston a brief rub-down and leaves him on the porch to dry a little more before the house is filled with the smell of wet dog, something Hannibal isn't particularly fond of. Will steps inside, leaves his boots and his jacket outside. He pulls his sweater over his head, pulls out his socks to put all of it on a chair beside the door, something to deal with later. His t-shirt is wet as well. He hesitates only briefly before he takes it off, which leaves him barefoot and naked from the waist up, his jeans clinging to him indecently.

It's a deliberate act, staying like this when he could as well go upstairs to change before entering the living room. Baring himself to Hannibal's gaze, inviting it. He counts on getting Hannibal's attention as soon as he steps into room.

He doesn't count on finding Hannibal and Jack on opposite ends of the table, and for them both to turn their heads and stare at him. 

_Attention._ Well, he certainly has theirs now. 

Will wants to close his eyes so he doesn't have to see the expression of unfiltered delight on Hannibal's face. 

"Hello, Will." As smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth, and if Will had to name the emotion he probably feels, he would settle on appreciation, quickly followed by some sort of unholy glee.

"Will," Jack says. 

Will remains motionless for a second. Has he missed some clues? There was no foreign car anywhere in sight, he's sure of it. Nothing out of order in the hallway. No signs of a struggle. Is Jack the agent they sent in to convince them to surrender – bugged all over, with reinforcements closing in on them at the very moment - or has he come alone? The latter, apparently, because if there had been the slightest bit of doubt, Hannibal would already have killed him and run. Hannibal won't get caught again, alive or dead. The fact that Jack's hands aren't tied speaks for itself. 

"How did you find us?" Will asks. Not because he wants to know, just to buy time. It's the expected, the predictable thing to say. If the answer is Molly, he really doesn't want to hear it. He walks over to the fridge, making a show of how he feels at home here. He also needs something to occupy his hands.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" Jack asks him.

Hannibal clears his throat. "I believe that Jack came here to convince himself that I wasn't keeping you against your … will."

Will takes a bottle of water out of the fridge. His hands are steady, remain steady as he takes a glass out of the cabinet and pours water into it. He carefully puts the bottle back, then leans against the countertop, glass in one hand, and looks over to them.

"Will," Jack says again. His face is calm. "Whatever happened on that cliff –"

"What do you think happened, Jack?" 

"You tell me," Jack says. "From the amounts of blood we found – plenty of it yours, and _his_  ," he inclines his head into Hannibal's direction, "it looked like you were badly wounded during the fight. Dolarhyde was dead and the foot prints indicated a fall – but there were no other bodies, only a fire and a dead doctor fifty miles down the coast. Also the disappearance of one Caesar J. Pullman, handyman, father of three, who used to take the coast road on his way home every night. I gathered that at least one of you had probably survived."

"So you came looking for us," Will says. "You shouldn't have." With a brief stab of guilt he thinks of Pullman, whose body Hannibal disposed of on a landfill site a couple of days ago. His car is still parked inside the barn. 

Jack shakes his head. "I wasn't going to give up on finding you alive, Will. It was me who brought you in on the case." He looks tired, exhausted, resigned. "This wasn't what I expected to find."

Hannibal seems content to keep watching them both. Will doesn't doubt that in his mind, he has already mapped every possible outcome. "What happened isn't your fault," Will says. "It was my decision. Still is."

"What _is_ your decision, Will? What _is this_? I came here expecting – you, half-dead, maybe, or drugged to the gills, with Satan here whispering sweet nothings in your ear. I didn't come expecting to see you have decided to become his _boytoy_. Or whatever it is you are doing."

Will can just about feel Hannibal's amusement. He refrains from self-consciously crossing his arms at his chest, keeps his body language relaxed and reassured instead. Besides, Jack isn't far off, even though Will's appearance reflects intent rather than reality at this point. "No drugs necessary. It's all on me, Jack," he says.

"Why?" Jack says, and there's a bit of exasperation in his voice, the need to understand. "I get that he messed with your head. That he made you believe –"

Will shakes his head. "Sometimes it bothers me how similar you two actually are. What you need to understand – both of you - is that I am no one's pet or project. Not his. Not yours. Neither of you _made_ me."

"Then what happened? With Dolarhyde? What made you change your plans?"

"What makes you think that my plans changed at all, Jack?"

Jack shakes his head. His fingers twitch, but whether it's from the urge to draw a gun or bang his fist on the table, isn't quite clear. Then takes a deep breath and forces his body into stillness. "Do not try to tell me you actually wanted him to escape."

"Don't pretend you didn't know I did."

"A part of you, sure. But that part is not who you are. Don't tell me you really want all these lives – these deaths – on your conscience. What went wrong, Will? Whatever it is, whatever you did to Dolarhyde or _think_ you did – you can come back from it."

"I don't think so, Jack," Will says. "See, I no longer _want_ to come back." He lets his words sink in, watches how Jack finally, _finally_ starts to see, starts to understand. Too late, of course, but still. When Will smiles, it's with regret, and he knows it shows on his face. "I was never afraid of losing my mind," he says. "I was only afraid of what I would find inside, once I'd gather the courage to look."

Jack shakes his head. "I don't believe you." 

It's not a lack of imagination on Jack's part, not really. More an abundance of stubbornness. Jack doesn't believe him because Jack doesn't want to believe him, and he likely never will. 

"What now?" Jack asks. He keeps looking at Will, searching his face. "What are you going to do, now that the choice is between him and me?" 

"Did you tell anyone where you were going?" Will asks. Not that it matters. 

"Not yet. But I set things into motion. If I disappear, they will know." 

Has he really come without backup? Part of Will wants to doubt it, can't believe that Jack would put his life on the line like this. He's never been fond of dramatic gestures, and this, entering Hannibal's lair on his own, is not a sane course of action by any means.

"How unfortunate," Hannibal says. He gets up from his chair. "In that case, would you care to join us for a drink? An old scotch for an old friend?" He walks over to the cabinet, taking out a bottle with amber liquid.

"I am afraid not," Jack says. He bares his teeth for a second. "I wouldn't mix well with the medication I have been taking for the last few weeks."

"A pity," Hannibal says. He crosses the room to stand beside Jack, leaning toward him to inhale. "Ah. Trimethoprim with sulfamethoxazole. Some kind of chronic infection? Or did you take it as a precaution so as to make yourself indigestible? In that case, congratulations on your foresight." He steps back. "But I don't think you will live long enough to experience symptoms of discomfort, even if you take that scotch. Indulge me."

"Will," Jack says, disregarding Hannibal. "I don't care what you did to Dolarhyde, whether you killed him in cold blood or in some kind of frenzy – it doesn't matter. You never killed someone who didn't deserve it. You never killed a friend. I am your friend, Will. I have always been. Are you really going to take that step?"

So it comes down to this. There is no way for Will to walk away from this decision; Jack has made sure of it. He is forcing Will's hand, one way or another. _Head, he lives._ Will would smile if he could. Hybris, to believe that the fate of a man like Jack would be decided by the toss of the coin. There is no use in trying to convince him to leave, he won't budge. His goal isn't to stop Hannibal - if it had been that, he wouldn't have come alone, wouldn't have come at all, would just have pointed the FBI in their direction. No. For Jack, it has been personal since the day the Chesapeake Ripper caught Miriam Lass, and he doesn't want to kill Hannibal – he wants to beat him.

Hannibal steps back, returns to the cabinet and proceeds to pour scotch into three whiskey glasses. He walks over to Will, offering him one. Their fingers meet as their eyes do, but Hannibal's expression tells him nothing. Hannibal walks over to Jack, puts one glass in front of him, careful to stay out of reach of a physical attack. "A taste to savor. Gold Bowmore, one of 701 bottles ever sold. It would be my pleasure to drink it with you, one of my dearest friends. A chance to say goodbye."

Jack sighs. "Why not."

Hannibal takes another step back, then lifts his glass as Jack lifts his. "Sláínte,"he says. All three of them take a drink and the moment after is quiet, almost serene.

Will sets the glass down. He pulls a kitchen knife from the block.

They keep watching him as he walks over to the table, Hannibal's eyes dark and expressionless. Jack shakes his head – still in denial, still convinced that Will is not going to go through with it. Will has always resented him for his certainty in all things, his unwavering sense of right and wrong, compassion the thin veneer on top of an iron will. Jack is rigid; he'll never bend and it will take severe force to break him. But Will has the power to shatter him, knows it, weighs it in his mind as he weighs the knife in his hands. He takes another step. Jack and Hannibal are both silent. 

He could turn against either of them. 

Only that's not true, not anymore. Hannibal knows it and Jack sees it too, during these last moments. His eyes widen. "Will," he says, full of regret. "Don't do this."

"It appears you lost your game, Jack," Hannibal says. "Would it be a comfort to you to know you played well?"

"No," Jack says, holding Will's gaze. "It was never a game to me."

"I truly am sorry," Hannibal says. 

Jack doesn't say anything. Will sees him swallow, and the fear shows in his eyes, but he doesn't back down, doesn't look away, does nothing to defend himself from the blow he knows is coming. "Don't do this, Will." 

"Goodbye, Jack," Will says softly, and attacks.

The chair crashes down as Jack throws himself to the side, reaching for the gun hidden in his ankle holster. Hannibal throws his glass at him, narrowly missing his face. Will catches the chair, throws it aside and aims a kick at Jack's face that Jack dodges, just barely. Jack has his gun out, aiming at Will, and Will feints a sidestep to the right, as if trying to evade the shot he knows is coming, switches the knife to his left, and dives in. Jack pulls the trigger, misses Will by mere inches, and then the knife cuts his throat, slicing right through skin, tissue, and arteries. Blood gushes from the wound. There's a horrible, gurgling noise that seems to last forever as Jack struggles for breath, his body convulsing. His eyes lose focus. Will bends down to take the gun from his hand and put the safety back on.

Seconds pass while Jack's body fights death, then, inevitably, life drains from him and the noises fade to leave silence behind.

Will gets up from the crouch, knife still in hand. He turns around to face Hannibal. Hannibal's eyes are on him, as Will had known they would be, filled with a dark, glittering fire.

"Will," Hannibal says, soft and warm. "My beautiful, beautiful boy."

"This wasn't for you," Will says. 

"I know. But it was a gift for me all the same." 

"Shut up," Will says. He puts the knife on the table, leaving bloodstains on the tablecloth. He still feels on edge. 

He has killed Jack. It had to be done. A part of him clings to a grim sense of determination, and another part revels in the dark satisfaction that comes from taking not just any life, but this one. Maybe there will be regret, later, and maybe there will be grief. Maybe there won't. It doesn't matter. 

Hannibal takes a step toward him, slow and measured. His hands land on Will's shoulder and one slides into his hair, the other cups his cheek in that tender gesture he is so inexplicably fond of. Will permits it, trembling with the conflicting urges. He is poised for violence, thrumming with it, feeling gloriously, thrillingly alive, and Hannibal's touch is incongruously tender.

"Will," Hannibal says. "You have no idea how irresistible you are to me." 

Will laughs. It comes out rougher than intended. "I think it's fair to say, I have an impression."

"Do you?" Hannibal asks. "Do you really?"

"If you think of kissing me right now," Will says and swallows, "don't. Not unless you're prepared to go through with it, unless want it messy – hard and fast." He can imagine it just fine, and there's no doubt that it would be glorious, as much a fight as a fuck, all the violent energy in him turning into a vicious lust. It's burning under his skin. I would be primal, brutal, neither graceful nor pretty. He feels Hannibal respond to his words, the involuntary, minute strengthening of his touch, the tension in the corner of his eyes. 

Then Hannibal relaxes, and takes a deep breath. "While I have to admit that the idea to relieve tension with a brief sexual encounter holds a certain appeal, I would in fact prefer not to rush this. Unfortunately, we need to be gone by morning."

"Would you take your time with me?" Will asks. "Would you _make love to me_?" 

"In my defense, I was not aware that you were considering the possibility of a sexual relationship between us until very recently," Hannibal says. "You will forgive me for wanting to approach his subject with a certain … cautiousness."

"Are you afraid I am going to change my mind?" 

"Would you say that it is an unreasonable fear?"

"I don't know," Will says with another shaky laugh. "We'll have to find out, I guess. I'm definitely considering it right now."

"In case you consider it again in near future," Hannibal says, "the answer to your question is yes. I intend to take my time with you. If you let me." 

Will closes his eyes, shivering. "I might," he says. "But you know me. I am not always going to play by your rules." He can't help but lean into the touch, breathe in and out until Hannibal steps back, his eyes lingering on Will's face.

~~~~~

It doesn't take long to prepare everything for their departure. Jack has parked his car on the street. They hide it inside the barn, load their stuff into a pick-up truck that had been stored away under a tarp. Winston gets to ride in the backseat again. They don't bother to clean out the house, but they take their time with Jack. It has to be appropriate, what they do with him. They lay him out on the table, arranged between candles and flowers, clothed in his blood-soaked suit. The knife buried to the hilt in his chest. _A stab to the heart, the worst kind of betrayal._ It's covered in Will's fingerprints, a message all on its own. He keeps burning his bridges, one by one. Hannibal puts the coin between Jack's fingers. _Master of his own fate._ A glass of scotch at his right. _A friend, someone who deserved the best, and someone who could appreciate a gift and enjoy beautiful things._ A black rook, pushed into his esophagus. _A powerful chess piece, but not the most versatile one. Always one step behind. Ultimately, biting off more than he could chew._

It's long past midnight. Their goal is Chicago. They switch in the morning, eat breakfast in a diner, then carry on. They reach the outskirts of town at ten pm and rent a room at a run-down motel. 

That evening, they put Winston to sleep. 

It has been a foolish idea from the start, taking Winston with him. He knows that. More so now, after Jack has found them. The FBI will know about Winston from the lake house; they will go to Molly for a description, and ultimately, get it. It puts them at risk, taking him with them. Dogs attract attention, and mixed breeds like Winston are much easier to spot than your standard brown labrador. Winston is microchipped. To provide him with proper certificates, they would have to take the chip out first, insert another one, get new papers. Hannibal hasn't said anything, not when Will first showed up with Winston on his heels, not when they left the lake house. He's left it up to Will to face the truth, eventually. Arranging a transport for Winston to Argentina might be possible, but it's too much of a risk. There can be no traces to their old lives, their old identities, and while it was a lovely idea in theory, it's simply too much of a lead. No matter who they pay, someone will know and tell. 

The sane thing, the ethical thing, would be to take him to a shelter. They'll probably send him back to Molly. 

Only that Winston has always been Will's dog. Not theirs, certainly not hers. Molly used to joke that he was going to give her a complex because Winston made it abundantly clear that she was second best. Now that Will is gone, she won't keep him. 

Which is worse, abandoning him, or killing him? 

He stays with Winston when Hannibal gives him the first injection, stays with him as he falls asleep with his head in Will's lap. Winston doesn't feel the second injection, or the third, which goes straight to his heart. They don't take out the syringe. Will tracks they way it moves with every fading heartbeat until finally, finally, it stops. Only then he pulls out the needle. For a second, grief overwhelms, chokes him: for Winston, for Jack, for himself. For a second, it's almost more than he can bear. The last of his bridges burned. His life, turned into blood and ashes. He keeps kneeling on the floor, carding through the soft fur. What kind of monster brings death to a man without mercy, yet falls to pieces over the death of a pet dog? 

"Go," he tells Hannibal without looking at him. "I need to be alone right now." Hannibal hesitates on the doorstep. "Go," Will tells him. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Hannibal nod, then leave.

Hours pass, Will doesn't know how many. He finally wraps Winston in a blanket and carries him outside to put him in the trunk. He disposes of the body in a run-down area of the city, where no one is going to ask any questions about a dead dog. 

When he returns to the hotel, Hannibal is waiting for him in their room. "I am sorry, Will," he says. 

It's a ridiculous notion, that this man, with all he has done, all the suffering he caused, the sadistic torture of mind and body that he has inflicted on others, should feel regret over the death of an animal. 

They both remain silent for a while, until Hannibal turns from the window and walks over to him. "Should I leave you alone?"

"No," Will says. "Stay." He does not want to be alone any longer. "Please," he adds, and Hannibal takes one step toward him, puts his hands on his shoulders and pulls their foreheads together. 

"You don't need to ask," he says quietly. "Not for this."

Will lets out a deep breath. Anger and resentment abate as he reminds himself that he chose this, that there is no other place he would rather be. Not anymore. 

They share a bed that night, lying next to each other. Will closes his eyes, listening as Hannibal breathes steadily and deeply, finding comfort in his presence. He knows how this works, psychologically speaking, what compels him to turn to Hannibal for Hannibal. Doing what he does, cutting all ties to his life, Hannibal is the only thing that remains. The only anchor he has. For better or worse, they are intertwined, and it's Will's own hand weaving them together, binding them tightly. The distance between them dwindles because it hurts too much, staying away from the only that still makes sense.

~~~~~

They change residence the next day, book into a nice middle class hotel, take different rooms. Over the course of the next few days, Hannibal dyes his hair black and starts wearing glasses; Will shortens his to a buzz cut and lets his beard grow. Hannibal's lawyers – his real lawyers, not Mr. Metcalfe – provide them with fake identities: passports, graduation certificates. Turning them into Doctor Erik Norquist, a Swedish-born general practitioner from Minneapolis, and John Mathew Wilson, Cleveland psychologist. It probably took them years of preparation to compile all these documents, and it tells him what he already knew when he saw the lake house: Hannibal has been planning this for some time.

Will should probably be alarmed by it, but it's not like he doesn't know by now that Hannibal leaves very few things to chance. It does not really surprise him. Watching Mr. Talbot and Mr. Heines of Talbot & Partner hand over files and certificates of a fictional life, he gets the impression that he is witnessing something inevitable. 

Maybe those guys could have found a way to bring Winston across the border. Or maybe it would have been the one thing to break all of their necks. He can't tell either way. 

Two days after their arrival in Chicago, Jack Crawford's death by the hand of Hannibal the Cannibal and Wicked Will makes the news. Will hast to give Freddie credit: murder husbands turns into a nation-wide headline. It also makes it more likely for them to go unnoticed if they separate. It's Will who brings it up and Hannibal who agrees, but Will can sense and empathize with Hannibal's discomfort in a way would be concerning if he didn't know the reason.

It is clearly the sane thing to do and they plan every step meticulously, that Will will be the first to leave Chicago to drive to Kansas City, take a flight from there to Miami, then to Buenos Aires. Hannibal's route is slightly longer: he'll take a flight to San Francisco, drive to Los Angeles, book a flight with stops in Panama and Brazil. 

Plans made, they go shopping for a new wardrobe. To Will's astonishment, Hannibal doesn't insist on choosing suits and ties for him, even though he clearly wants to.

~~~~~

Their last day in Chicago passes in a blur. The east lunch in a fancy Italian restaurant with a view of Lake Michigan. Will has a headache that won't go away, feeling both uncomfortable in his elegant suit and tie and restless, with a deep, underlying tension running through him. Hannibal enjoys his meal, attentive and charming. When a clumsy waiter spills red wine over a guest two tables over, and the guest starts complaining in length and volume and with a rather colorful vocabulary, his eyes turn blank in barely concealed disgust. Any other day, one of the two might become the Ripper's next target. Will knows it and he knows that Hannibal knows he knows; they exchange a gaze, a half-smile, and then Hannibal lowers his gaze, pleased with himself, almost shy.

It will be their last night in the USA for quite a while. Dinner plans with Bedelia have been postponed, just as Hannibal's plans of visiting Alana, which isn't the same as a cancellation and Will doesn't delude himself into thinking it is. 

They return to their hotel early. Will packs his bag, the wardrobe he chose, a few things Hannibal chose for him, and goes to take a shower. He pulls on jeans and a plain shirt, nothing extraordinary, as he leaves his room and knocks on Hannibal's door. Hannibal opens, still in his suit. He bought them a bottle of wine at a deli, hands Will a glass without asking. They drink. Hannibal holds himself still, body language and expression carefully guarded. 

Hannibal isn't afraid, he doesn't know fear. Still, what he feels now very likely comes close. 

"Were there times during your stay at the hospital where you doubted?" Will asks. "Where you actually considered that you might not be able to make me come to you?"

"I have never taken you for granted, Will," Hannibal says, and nothing more. 

Will looks at him, imagines it, how much time Hannibal probably spent planning for ways to get Will's attention. He put himself into prison and remained there for three years just to let Will know that he _meant_ it. Despite everything, his books and the entertainment provided by Chilton, Alana, and the terrified staff, despite his memory palace and the books and drawings, these three years must have been a torment. 

Ever since their fight with Dolarhyde and their fall, Hannibal has seemed weirdly hesitant, as if he cannot believe his luck. Unassuming, in as much as he can be. Accommodating. Will has been preoccupied with his own coming to terms, with his own feelings, the conflicting urges. He has been torn and probably always will be. The lines he draws may be more arbitrary than before, but they are still there: he doesn't want Hannibal to go after Molly, or Alana, even if he killed Jack in cold blood. He hasn't allowed himself to feel anything beside his own guilt and doubt, and maybe it's time to stop. 

In less than twelve hours, he and Hannibal will split up and be separated for more than a week.  
If makes him feel unsettled and he can only assume how much worse it must be for Hannibal to let him out of his sight. 

Hannibal puts on music. The Well-Tempered Clavier fills the room with its distinctive sound. "Of all Middle European musicians, I have always admired Bach the most," Hannibal says. "Complex and compelling. I would like to take you to a concert in Buenos Aires, when the opportunity arises."

"Classical European piano music isn't quite what comes to my mind when I think of Argentina," Will says. "You do not have any intention to tango, do you?"

Hannibal stops short for a second. "In fact, I find it an extremely alluring idea."

Will snorts. "Don't count on me. I'm sure you'll find a partner who is more … delicate and graceful than me."

"I find it harder and harder to imagine an activity where you wouldn't be my preferred choice of partner, Will." A statement, factual and sincere. It is not even an attempt of flirting, it is just Hannibal's tactic of employing honesty where it suits him. 

"You haven't seen me dance," Will says. "Can two men even tango?"

Hannibal smiles, shark-like and amused. "Does the term 'queer tango' mean anything to you?"

"Oh, God," Will says. "You're serious, aren't you." He tries to picture it and fails, Hannibal wearing skin-tight pants and a half-open shirt, and a rainbow scarf for good measure Then he thinks of Hannibal in a fight, lethal and ruthless, and it stops being funny and becomes something different entirely, to imagine him on a dance floor with the same strength and grace. "I'll step on your toes, fall over my feet, probably end up straining a muscle when try to dip me. There are plenty of things that I'd rather be doing."

Hannibal's eyes are glittering. "Pray tell."

"Find out," Will counters. He smiles. "I have done my research. Have you ever been to Cuyo?"

"Not yet," Hannibal says. He looks intrigued, 

"We should go there," Will says. "Find a lovely vineyard during the grape harvest. Go fishing in Patagonia." So far, he has refrained from thinking about their life in Argentina, it has been a vague possibility, nothing more. "I'll have to learn Spanish." 

"It would be … commendable," Hannibal says. He keeps looking at Will. 

"Have you been with many men?" Will asks. It might appear as a non-sequitur to an innocent bystander; to them, it's anything but.

"A few," Hannibal says. "For the longest time, I felt that women made for a more ... complementary sexual experience."

"Complementary," Will repeats. 

"Complementary and contrasting," Hannibal says. "I used to find pleasure in the stark physical differences, the softness and fragile beauty of a female body. I was looking to explore these differences to achieve gratification by means of a rather heteronormative sexual aesthetic."

"And men?"

"It so happened that the men I was interested in on a more than superficial level were, for the most part, heterosexual."

"Did you let that stop you?"

"Most of them were not worth the effort," Hannibal says. "What about you, Will? What are you looking for in a partner?"

"A loaded question," Will says. "There are few people I was ever really … comfortable with, let alone compatible." 

"Your wife?"

"On a physical level? It was comfortable, easy. So, yes, compatible, to a degree."

"Are you still considering, Will?"

"Right now? I'm trying to find out what it is that you want me to consider. Tell me," Will says. He is loathe to think of it as flirting. It's … collecting data. Gathering information. "What would you do to me?"

"What would you _let_ me do?" Hannibal asks, as answer will should probably have foreseen. "Would you give yourself over to me? Would you trust me enough to do as I please?"

"Is that a prerequisite?"

"No," Hannibal says.

"Here's another question for you," Will says softly. "What would you let me do to you?" He takes a step toward Hannibal, who is standing with his back against the sideboard. Will has already put his wineglass down, and now Hannibal does the same, straightening his stance as Will comes closer.

Will has thought about it, during sleepless hours late at night, during uneventful days at the lake house. He has thought about it pretty constantly, under different circumstances: on a walk with Winston, under the shower, during dinner preparations. Thinking any longer won't do him any good. This is their last night in the States, and Will is tired of letting things happen.

In the end, it's easy to take that final step that brings him into Hannibal's personal space, close enough to smell his aftershave. The chemical scent of dye clings to Hannibal's black hair. It's easy to bridge the gap and lean in, a thigh pressed between Hannibal's legs, a hand on his shoulder. It's easy to lift his hand and cup Hannibal's cheek, mirroring a gesture that is so intimately connected now to Hannibal in his mind. Hannibal stares at him, motionless under his touch. 

Then Will brushes a thumb over his cheek and Hannibal's eyes fall close. He inhales, and there's a tilt to his head - 

Hannibal stills. 

Hannibal isn't afraid, he doesn't feel fear, he's not vulnerable.

Only, in this moment he does, and he is. 

It's that knowledge that propels Will to lean in, tilt his head up, and kiss him. 

Will closes his eyes as their lips touch. He breathes, tastes, lets himself feel, the curve of Hannibal's lips, thinner and less lush than Molly's and unfamiliar. At the same time, it feels like a part of him has already known what it would be like. The wine on his lips, the corner of his mouth – the breath he takes in, the faintest tremor that runs through him. Will keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't deepen the kiss, but he breaks it only for a brief moment before he comes back again to take Hannibal's bottom lip between his teeth, deliver the tiniest bit of suction, and swipe his tongue over it. Hannibal's fingers slide into his hair as he starts to kiss back, careful and sweet. Endlessly slow and gentle, as if they have all the time in the world. 

Will pulls back. He lets out a shaky breath. His fingers slide from Hannibal's cheek to his shoulder to hold him in place. He opens his eyes and meets Hannibal's gaze, wanting, _needing_ to see.

For the lack of a better word, Hannibal looks enrapt. His eyes, dark enough on their own, are swallowed by black, and he looks at Will with a scorching intensity, stripped bare of his carefully crafted persona. He holds himself in place, but his eyes burn. It's all there, everything he is, in that instant, his greed, his hunger, and his passion. Will looks into the eyes of the Chesapeake Ripper, and he looks into the eyes of a man with an insatiable appetite, a thirst and appreciation of anything life has to offer. 

And for some reason, it's Will who gets to see him like this. The brilliance of him, the untamed ferociousness, the merciless compulsion of his mind to seek, to experience, to _alter_ \- existentialist freedom acknowledged, claimed, and owned. They stare at each other, in a moment where the world outside has ceased to exist, as if there were no care horns honking on the streets, no breeze coming through the open window, the night air cool and humid. 

Confusion, doubt, and conflicting emotions all slowly ebb away to make room for understanding, a somber sense of clarity. _This,_ Will thinks. Knows. This man, this moment in time. All his decisions led to this, the cliff and the fall a culmination, yet it wouldn't be complete without this moment, the conclusion to everything that has happened since he and Hannibal first met. 

He leans in again for one last kiss, chaste and soft. He no longer feels any kind of regret. How could he, with Hannibal looking at him like this?

~~~~~

Their goodbye in the morning is quiet. They have breakfast together, Will's bags packed and deposited beside the door. After finishing his coffee, Will gets up to brush his teeth. Hannibal is still sitting and browsing through digital newspapers. He looks up when Will comes to stand in front of his chair. "I'll be waiting for you," Will says lightly. "Don't take too long."

To his surprise, Hannibal reaches for him. Both hands on Will's hips, he pulls him closer until Will is standing right in front of him. It's almost instinct to lift a hand and bury it into Hannibal's black hair, card his fingers through it from the top of his head to the nape of his neck, then let them slide further down to trail along his spine, over a soft cashmere sweater and the expanse of a strong, muscular back.

Hannibal takes in a deep breath, turns his head to the side and lays a cheek against Will's stomach. An involuntary shivers runs through Will, the muscles of his stomach jumping at the sensation, before he relaxes and just keeps breathing for a moment, Hannibal's head resting against him, Will's hand on his back, palm spread wide. "I'll see you in Buenos Aires," Will says. 

"Travel safely," Hannibal says and then lets him go.

~~~~~

The moment stays with him. It stays with him as he goes on the long drive to Kansas City, as he boards the plane, during his short stay in Miami, when he gets off the plane and steps out into the tropical summer heat in Argentina, full of Spanish-speaking voices and unfamiliar smells and sounds.

It stays with him as he books into a hotel and spends the next few days adapting to the heat and the climate. He watches Argentinian TV and tries to recall what he remembers from his Spanish lessons in college. He buys a dictionary and grammar books, spends his evenings memorizing words, pronunciation, speech patterns. 

He waits. 

He doesn't hear from Hannibal, but he doesn't expect to. 

Until one week later, he receives a note with an address, leading him to the barrio of San Telmo, and two keys. Will packs his bags, checks out without leaving a follow-up address, and takes three different cabs to his destination. 

The neighborhood is less expensive than he thought it would be, but the building is in good shape, freshly renovated. The first key opens the front door, the second one belongs to an apartment on the third floor. 

Will takes a deep breath and opens the door.

~~~~~

It's a maisonette, more of a loft, brick walls and polished hardwood floor. The rooms are quiet and smell faintly of floor polish and new paint. Will casts a brief look around, the spacious living room, high ceilings, a black spiral staircase leading to the upper floor. French doors open to a balcony with an overview of the backyard. A mixture between classical Mediterranean and modern South American style, floor to ceiling windows, and, of course a kitchen worthy of a chief. Will doesn't want to give an estimation of what the apartment might have cost, or what the rent might be.

He slowly climbs the stairs. On the upper floor, he discovers a small sitting area, two small, unfurnished rooms on the right, connected by an open doorway, just waiting to be turned into a study or a library.

Then there is the right door, which leads to the master bedroom, and Hannibal's suitcases are neatly placed on the bed, not yet unpacked. The door to the large en-suite bathroom is closed but unlocked. Heat envelops him as he enters, and he cannot see a lot except that the shower is large, with background lighting that turns the room into a twilight zone of steam and pouring water. 

Under the shower, Hannibal turns to look at him. Their eyes meet and Will's heart starts pounding in a way that frightens and amazes him, and then there is nothing left but to toe off his shoes, pull of his jacket to let it drop to the floor, and step into the shower with the rest of his clothes still on. 

The water is hot on his skin, soaking him within seconds. He pulls Hannibal toward him even sooner than that, while waters drenches his hair and runs down his face, pulls him closer until their lips meet in a cloud of steam and breath and they are pressed against each other, wet skin against wet, clinging fabric.

"Will," Hannibal says, and Will hums and chases his lips, bites down, then soothes the bite with his tongue, licking, tasting. Hannibal's hands come up to unbutton his shirt. "How I missed you."

"I'm with you now," Will says. His hands are free to do as they wish, so he lets them slide down Hannibal's shoulders and upper arms, then back up, pulling Hannibal's head to him. 

Hannibal doesn't answer but kisses him instead, greedier and hungrier than before, as if he can finally permit himself. 

They kiss for a long time while Hannibal slowly manages to undress him, pulling wet clothes of his skin. When his hands reach Will's belt, they slow down, and Will pushes against him, pushes his cock right against Hannibal's through the soaked fabric of his pants. He is already hard, and the sensation sends a wave of pleasure through him, turning his want into need. 

Hannibal opens his belt, but it's Will who pulls his pants and boxers down and steps out of them. And then it's a brief moment of hesitation, no more than a second or two, before he closes the distance between them and feels Hannibal against him, naked and warm. Taller than him, strong and aroused and much less hesitant now, his hands holding Will close, sliding over his back, his shoulders. They keep kissing until Will feels dizzy and hot and breathless. He doesn't know when his own desire stopped being a reflection of Hannibal's. All that he knows is that it is no longer a preemptive move on his side. Even if it were, he no longer cares – somewhere along the way the question of whether he would ever want this if Hannibal didn't has stopped being relevant. This is what he wants, and there is nothing to keep him from taking it. 

Hannibal groans when Will's hand finds his erection, and Will breaks the kiss, lifts his head to let water stream into his mouth, all over his face. "What do you want to do?" he asks. He lowers his head, opens his eyes again. Hannibal stares at him, with an intensity that is almost unbearable. 

"I'd have you on the bed, underneath me," Hannibal says finally. "Laid out for me. To touch you … to taste you."

"Not, I hope, to eat me." 

A smile flashes over Hannibal's face. "No. Not yet, in any case." He hesitates. "Maybe not ever."

"Because you want me for my mind, not for culinary value," Will says. "That's good to know." He feels rather than reaches for the faucet, and turns it off.

~~~~~

It's addictive, dangerously so. Will always thought it would feel weird, being on his back with someone taller and stronger on top of him, but it isn't. It's new and a little confusing, but not weird, not something he'd need to get used to to like it.

It's heady. Hannibal's eyes on him, his hands, and Will has been absolutely right about the way Hannibal would touch him, with his devastating attention for detail, his sense for nuances, but there is no triumph in realizing this, only pleasure. Pleasure that comes with being a strong grip around his forearms, dark eyes devouring him, a reverence that worships and owns in equal measures. Lips on his collarbone, hot and firm on his throat. This might just be his undoing. He has never had a lover so focused on him, his body, his pleasure. 

"Will," Hannibal whispers. "Would you –"

"Yes," Will says, meeting his gaze, and now it's Hannibal who closes his eyes, breathing hard, holding himself carefully still – an expression on his face, almost, almost like pain – 

Will moves without thinking about it, rolling over onto his stomach. "Do it." He wants to feel Hannibal inside him, the last of barriers gone. His fingers dig into the pillow while Hannibal opens him up with excruciating diligence. He takes deep breaths, until he feels almost as if he has retreated inside his mind, floating, yet at the same time, acutely aware of every sensation and every detail. The feeling itself is deeply foreign: Hannibal's fingers, sliding in and out of him, coated in some kind of lubricant; the touch as thorough and methodical as everything Hannibal else applies his mind to.

Will closes his eyes, focuses on touch and scent and feel. Hannibal's hands have hurt and healed him, and are now preparing his body for penetration with exquisite care.

"Give yourself to me, Will," Hannibal says close to his ear, his voice not quite soft enough to be a whisper.

I already have, Will doesn't say. No matter that this physical consummation has never been a requirement, it's still significant; he has trusted Hannibal with his body before, but not quite like this, naked and vulnerable. It goes without saying that Hannibal is going to be gentle, careful with him - it's the consequence of making Hannibal pursue him for so long. Knowing that Hannibal doesn't, won't take him for granted, is almost intoxicating: Will holds power and a part of him revels in it even now. 

Rejection can be a deliberate cruelty, but so can surrender.

And surrender he does.

When Hannibal finally covers Will's body with his own and slowly, steadily slides inside, it doesn't hurt, although there is a bit of discomfort at first, a new sensation that he gets used to while Hannibal moves slowly, oh so very slowly, with his hands on Will's arms, his breath caressing Will's neck and shoulders. His body opens to Hannibal, lets him in, and the jolts of lust he feels with every slow and thorough thrust are a reward on their own.

Hannibal takes his time with him. The outside world falls away and Will becomes increasingly aware of his body, his own reaction to a new kind of stimulation, one that he has never consciously desired, one that he wouldn't seek if it weren't for the man above him. It's submission, willingly given, and trust. A choice, borne from deliberation rather than passion.

Will turns his head to the side, right cheek turned up for Hannibal to see his scar, and sure enough, Hannibal bends down to kiss him there, his lips sliding over puckered, raised skin and stubble.

"Will," Hannibal says, and Will smiles, pushing back into his thrust. 

"Yes," he whispers. "Hannibal."

For a while, he doesn't know whether he'll be able to come this way, not until Hannibal turns them both to the side, and closes a hand around him, stroking him to full hardness, then slowly, in time with his thrusts, to completion. 

Will closes his eyes and gives himself over to sensation, to a partner who takes it upon himself to give him pleasure. He feels it building for a long time, until at some point, long past caring about appearance and pride, he whispers, "please," and feels Hannibal shudder with the impact of it. 

After that, it doesn't take long, Hannibal's thrusts just a little less languid, just that much more urgent, and then it happens, Will's body catches fire at last. All of a sudden, he's so close that every thought is driven from his mind, the physical sensation evoking a mindless need that makes him shake and tremble. One last, long stroke, and Will throws his head back, gasping for air as the climax hits him. The next thrust has him coming in hot, powerful spurts. Hannibal lets go of his cock to curl his fingers around his hip and hold him still. He drives himself deep one final time, conscious movement replaced by a long, helpless shudder as he spills.

Time passes as they ride out the aftershocks. Sated and exhausted, Will slowly catches his breath, surrenders to the lassitude that spreads through his whole body. He could fall asleep like this. When Hannibal pulls out of him and turns him onto his back, Will reluctantly opens his eyes to his intent gaze. Whatever Hannibal is searching for, he finds it in Will's face, and visibly relaxes. He kisses Will softly, then lies down on his side, one hand on Will's shoulder, a thumb caressing his collarbone. Will closes his eyes. The world returns to him gradually, but without urgency: the muted sound of traffic; steps and voices and a barking dog; a baby crying in the backyard. They don't talk. 

At some point, Will drifts off, relaxed and unconcerned.

As he wakes, well past eight, Hannibal has cleaned up the bathroom, hung up Will's clothes on the balcony to dry, and is preparing dinner in the kitchen downstairs. They eat, then go out for a brief walk to explore their surroundings, returning late at night to share a bottle of wine in their living room, the domesticity both foreign and familiar. 

Will goes to bed close to midnight. He is already asleep when Hannibal joins him in bed, wakes briefly as Hannibal slides under the covers. Will turns to his side. Surrounded by darkness, they breathe together for a moment. Will thinks he might be able to hear Hannibal‘s heart beat from a distance, a steady rhythm that will guide him through the night. Imagined or real, it doesn‘t matter in this moment. Caught between reality and a dream world, perceptions merging into a new calm that knows no nightmares, Will feels at ease.

~~~~~

_When they speak of Kore, they never talk about how when she entered the realm of the dead, she felt like she was coming home. They never talk about how that one day in the field, Hades saw her for who she truly was, and called out to her. He took her with him so she could take her rightful place at his side on a throne of pale bone and black marble, an empress in her own right. They never speak of her cruelty and her harshness, her blazing glory and her frightening beauty. They never talk of how she can be just as ruthless and relentless as her king, yet it is she who awakens mercy in him, and compassion for the dead and the living alike._

_When they talk about Kore, they only tell half the tale, and it is left to those who know how to read between the lines to find Persephone in the girl she was and the queen she became._

The End


End file.
